


what wound did ever heal

by HallsofStone2941



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Character Study, Disabled Character, Gabriel is a dick, M/M, Major Character Injury, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, old wound, rated M for like a single sentence sry guys this isn't smut :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 16:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19949566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallsofStone2941/pseuds/HallsofStone2941
Summary: Aziraphale refused to kill in the First War, and will bear the scars of that choice for the rest of his life.





	what wound did ever heal

**Author's Note:**

> HEY WHADDUP I HAVEN'T POSTED IN ALMOST FOUR YEARS. Not that I haven't been writing...slowly...
> 
> Anywho this fic is based on [this post](https://hallsofstone2941.tumblr.com/post/186157044656/there-are-so-many-things-in-good-omens-that-can-be), which was basically me analyzing Aziraphale's limp in Heaven after he gets discorporated. I said I wasn't going to write a fic. Then I said it was just going to be a drabble. 2800 words later I'm throwing it on here before I can poke it anymore, so have fun I guess?
> 
> Also for ease of writing/understanding, when the angels are in celestial form words like stomach and arm and mouth are just supposed to, like, give the closest approximation of their anatomical equivalents to the human body. bc i'm not going to spend another 500 words trying to describe shapes made of light ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Angels aren’t made for fighting, Aziraphale is certain.

He supposes that isn’t true, as they are fighting, right now, in fact, aren’t they? And it isn’t as if Aziraphale himself doesn’t know how to wield a weapon - not, mind because he’d ever imagined he would raise against someone, but, well, it had been the principle of  _ knowing _ , hadn’t it? There’s a sense of serenity and grace that always accompanies his practice with the sword, and perhaps that alone is indication that angels  _ had been _ made for fighting. And by extension, then, there had always been a place in the Great Plan for  _ this  _ fight.

This War.

There is no serenity and grace in the chaos around him: the sound of celestial weapons ringing with terrible beauty, the sight of heavenly bodies - his  _ family _ \- clashing against each other, the never-before-seen vision of ichor drenching their once pure-white surroundings in every color that exists, and some that don’t, yet.

They had said there was a fight. They had told him to grab his sword, to hurry away from his practicing and his curiosities, and to fight against The Others. They - and who was they? Aziraphale can’t recall - hadn’t bothered to tell him who The Others were - Other angels, the ones who’d been whispering amongst themselves and Asking Questions.  _ We’re not meant to fight...Them, are we? _ He’d asked nervously, once he had seen The Others.  _ Of course we are, _ they’d said - had it been Michael? Uriel? He really can’t recall.  _ They’ve rebelled. They have cast the Almighty out of their essence, and must now be cast out of Heaven _ .

It sounds to Aziraphale like a very long way to fall.

And now he stands there, sword hanging limply in his hand at his side, watching with a growing sense of dread and  _ heartbreak _ , a feeling neither he nor any being has ever felt before, mounting as the sounds of the battle rise cacophonously before him.

An angel - an Other angel - materializes in front of him, every one of their hundreds of eyes glaring, barely visible mouth twisted in a snarl. They hold their weapon with excitement, visibly eager at the prospect of a fight, and the thought turns Aziraphale’s stomach. He brings his sword up to fight, though every ray of light in his being recoils at the idea.

They stare at each other, weapons poised, for immeasurable seconds. Aziraphale can’t -  _ won’t _ \- attack first. In fact, he realizes, no matter how this fight goes, he won’t attack at all. The realization sags his entire being, sword lowering, expression becoming one of pure sadness. And the ang- his opponent, he thinks sadly, grins ferally, and lunges. 

Aziraphale knocks aside the attack with a simple flick of his wrist, resigned to this dance. It’s clear from his opponent’s movements that they’re not as familiar with their weapon as Aziraphale is with his - but that doesn’t promise that Aziraphale will survive this fight, not when he has no plans to put a permanent halt to their attacks. They attack again - and again and again and again, with Aziraphale blocking or dodging each of their attacks. Neither Aziraphale nor his opponent are tiring, and they won’t - this fight could, theoretically, go on forever, until someone else intervenes - but he’s been ready for this fight to be over before it began. His opponent has no such reserves, and is drawing from a seemingly bottomless pit of rage.

_ Why _ ? Aziraphale wonders.  _ Why are you so  _ angry _? _

And then it comes: the blow that he isn’t fast enough to stop. His opponent’s blade knocks off of his own and cuts, deep, somewhere near his form’s midsection, gashing across his right supporting limb. Aziraphale gasps in shock and collapses, landing hard on his injured side as his sword clatters to the ground. He can feel ichor pulsing over his form, pooling onto the ground and around his hand. He barely has time to see his opponent raise their weapon before darkness clouds his vision, blacker than the black holes that swirled in this newly-formed universe, blacker than the Darkness that had existed before the Light.

He truly doesn’t expect to wake up, and yet he does; the darkness fades to grey, and then to soft cream and white. His limb  _ hurts _ , and he jolts upward to clasp at the unimaginable  _ pain _ lancing through him.

A hand presses him back down, and he sees the face of an unknown angel, though clearly one with a healing touch.

_ Lie still _ , they command him.  _ Your injuries are grave. _

_ How long has it been? _ He asks. He can’t imagine a wound - even a celestial wound such as this - taking too long to heal.

All of their eyes flicker away from his, and their words come hesitantly.  _ Too long. I- _ We _ have done all we can, but I’m afraid... _ they meet his gaze.  _ This wound will be with you forever, Principality Aziraphale. _

Aziraphale blinks in shock, his wings trembling slightly.  _ Forever? _

_ Normally, for something this dire, we would have called in Raphael. Only he might’ve had the power to heal this. But no one has seen him since the battle, and some fear… _

They don’t need to finish the thought. They think the Archangel Raphael, one of the first...died. The word feels funny in his conscious. Dead. Such a thought, such a concept is new, but Aziraphale can already taste how  _ old _ and  _ tired _ it will become.

_ Here _ , his carer offers, hovering a hand over the wound - on his leg, he supposes, or what the equivalent will be, one day. Some of the pain goes away, but a deep ache remains.  _ That is all I can do. I’m afraid you must adapt to the rest _ . He feels their sadness in his essence, and knows this is not the only battle injury they have seen. And then they leave.

“Principality Aziraphale,” a voice speaks, out loud, Aziraphale notes, and he turns his head up to meet - oh, that’s the Metatron, isn’t it?

Aziraphale makes a great effort to stand, tottering dangerously before catching himself on  _ something _ that gives him enough leverage to remain upright. “What does the Almighty ask of me, Metatron?” he asks, bowing as low as he dares without falling over.

“You have been given an assignment, Aziraphale. You are to guard the Eastern Gate of Eden, the Paradise on Earth that the Almighty has deigned to give humanity. You will be issued a body, which will aid your...disability. And this, from God Herself.” The Metatron brings forth a sword, and ignites it into a pillar of fire with a thought. Aziraphale steadies himself before reaching for it, hefting the sword with a familiar move that is now accompanied by a roiling sensation in his stomach. He shifts his essence, and the sword flickers off, before flickering on again with another shift.

“I thank the Almighty for this gift,” he murmurs, turning back to the Metatron. The Metatron inclines their head in acknowledgement, and Aziraphale is once again left alone.

He’s left to himself for - well, it’s still hard to mark the passage of time. Aziraphale hopes desperately that it will be easier on Earth. He spends his time acclimatizing to the aching that has taken up permanent residence in his leg, deep enough that it could have gone all the way to the bone, if bones could be a thing this form has. When it is time for him to leave, he is met by the Archangel Gabriel at the Quartermaster’s stores.

“Well done, Aziraphale.” Gabriel commends him with a smile, a tad too tight to be genuine. “I heard you fought bravely. A pity about the Earth assignment, though.”

“Sorry?” Aziraphale asks.

“Well, it’s just...Earth, even made by the Almighty, it can’t really compare to up here, can it?” Gabriel offers, leaning in conspiratorially. 

Aziraphale thinks of the ache in his bones, of the sound of weapons still ringing in his ears, of the halls of Heaven that are once again white, but still, every time he looks at them, seem to remember the terrible stains of angels’ blood. He thinks of the Earth, new and colorful and empty of the hungry look he’d seen in the Other angels’ eyes, the one that he can still see in the eyes of the angels that hadn’t fallen, just waiting for another fight.

“No, I suppose not,” he murmurs.  _ And thank the Almighty for that _ .

* * *

He has found that he’s quite fond of his human corporation. The pain of his celestial wound is all but gone, for starters, and he can’t help but think that perhaps the Almighty sent him to Earth for that reason alone. If so, he’s so much more grateful than he could ever show.

But it’s not just his body he likes about Earth. It’s, well, the Earth itself. There’s so much  _ color _ , for one, and so many other things to crowd his senses and drown out the memories of the War - the feeling of the breeze ruffling his hair and wings, the sun shining down upon his head, the scent of all the fruits Eden has to bear, the looks shared between Adam and Eve when they think no one is looking (and why would they? They are the only humans, literally, in the world). Even the feeling of rain, though it comes on a rather unfortunate day, is a glorious sensation that he feels in his essence as much as on his skin. It washes away the cloistering heat of the desert with more success than miracles on ichor.

(And the fact that he no longer carries a weapon, God-given though it may have been, is its own weight off his shoulders, and worth the small amount of guilt he does feel about whether or not he’d done the Right thing.)

(Not to mention his personal adversary doesn’t seem as prone to violence as some of the Others - the demons - could be. Aziraphale is quite glad he won’t, it seems, be put in a position to kill again.)

* * *

“Come on! You’re a lean, mean, fighting machine!” Gabriel insists, playfully air-punching at his gut. Aziraphale flinches away slightly, the sounds of the clash of celestial weapons ringing distantly in his ears. He feels vaguely mocked, though far more disturbing is the awareness that Heaven still seems to think he had shared their fervor in casting the Others out. 

“I’m soft,” he laments as Gabriel jogs away. He had been from the Beginning, and as proud as he’s always been that he didn’t go in for war and death and violence, now he fears it won’t be enough to save...well,  _ everything _ . 

_ If there were ever a time to take up arms _ ...he wonders, but then Gabriel asks him about the flaming sword, and he remembers the sheer relief of letting go of that burden.  _ No, _ he resolves.  _ Not even now. There  _ must  _ be another way. _

* * *

He really hadn’t been ready to enter Heaven, and the sudden shock of  _ feeling _ that ancient wound muddles his brain to the point where he  _ nearly _ accepts his celestial armor, for Heaven’s sake. 6,000 years and he’d been  _ so careful _ with his body, and now at the end of it all he’d gone and lost it.

“I  _ do _ need a body,” he murmurs half to himself, desperately trying to ignore the throbbing in his leg. “Pity I can’t inhabit yours,” he adds, wishing for all the world that he might share Crowley’s corporation, just briefly, just for a  _ moment’s _ relief from the pain. But the sound Crowley makes (oh, he  _ wishes _ he could see his face) doesn’t sound particularly thrilled, so Aziraphale explains it away and moves on, not even letting Crowley finish his thought before he’s gone again.  _ Please, let there be a body. _

* * *

“Come up with  _ something _ , or--” he looks at the sword, raised in his hand by no conscious thought of his own. Poised to strike Crowley -  _ Crowley _ , his friend, his adversary, his closest companion and infuriating opposite. Crowley, looking at him with eyes wide and afraid, asking, ‘is this where it ends? Is this where you betray me?’. Crowley - a terrible demon,  _ an angel _ , his mind supplies _ , however Fallen, an angel, once _ . He hadn’t been able to do it then, against an unnamed, wrathful opponent, and he sure as Hell can’t do it now, not to the one that means more than  _ anything _ to him.

The sword falls at his side, a great mirror of that battle long ago, and instead spouts something that’s less of a threat and more of a promise - because if Crowley doesn’t think of _something_ , one last stroke of genius, they will, quite literally, never speak to each other, or see one another, or laugh over too many bottles of wine, dine at the Ritz, feed the ducks at the park, or any of the myriad of other mundane little pleasures in life, _human_ _life_ , they share together, ever again.

And Crowley, bless his damned soul, does.

* * *

Aziraphale hadn’t  _ meant _ to transform into his celestial form, truly, but Crowley had done such  _ wonderful things _ with his hands, causing Aziraphale’s wings to burst from his back, and then he’d put those hands to use in his  _ feathers _ , and oh, how that had brought about an  _ extraordinary  _ climax on several planes of existence. Now he’s trembling above Crowley’s prone form, a dozen wings floating softly in the air behind him and hundreds of eyes giving him a  _ glorious  _ view of the demon below him. 

Crowley quirks a smile at him, and Aziraphale thinks that smile alone could erase any pain he’s ever felt.

Well, almost any pain.

He falls forward, bracketing Crowley’s sides with his hands, and it’s clear he hasn’t quite managed to hide his grimace of pain and muffled groan. Crowley’s expression instantly switches from utterly besotted to concerned.

“Aziraphale? What--” Crowley’s eyes slip downward, pupils narrowing as they look through Aziraphale’s Heavenly glow, and suddenly a hand is hovering close enough to his thigh that it brushes against the hairs on his leg. “What happened,” Crowley whispered.

“Ah, that.” Aziraphale glances down as the glow of his celestial form dims somewhat. “It’s an old wound, not to worry.” Even as he says it, he pulls in the light of his first form, forcing his essence back into the nice little fleshy box that Adam had been kind enough to return to him. He sighs in relief as the ache vanishes.

Crowley’s eyes widen as the large scar crossing the front of Aziraphale’s right upper thigh, stretching to slightly above his hipbone, disappears along with his six sets of wings, uncountable eyes, and fiery wheels swirling around his head. “That--that was...that wasn’t done to your corporation,” he chokes out. “That was…”

“From the War, yes,” Aziraphale confirms softly. Crowley would have never known about it;  _ no one _ has seen it, and Aziraphale hasn’t talked about it, since he was first sent to Earth. 

“Who?” Crowley demands.

“What?”

“Who did it,” he growls out, hand clenching away from Aziraphale’s thigh, clearly afraid to hurt him. “I’ll  _ kill  _ them.”

Killing has never been Crowley’s style (except when Aziraphale is involved; 1793 and 1941 being particularly memorable incidents, but Aziraphale has yet to pick up on the pattern), and Aziraphale doesn’t want him to start now.

“Please don’t, as that would ruin the whole point,” Aziraphale pleads.

“Wha’d’you mean?” Crowley asks, confused.

Aziraphale sighs. “I didn’t... _ kill _ them. Whoever it was, and no, I don’t  _ know _ who it was. I didn’t even try. It was all so...so  _ horrible _ , that fight, and I didn’t want any part in it, even when they called me out, so...so I didn’t. I refused. And even,” he pauses, resting his hand where the wound would be and looking down at his splayed fingers, where Crowley’s hand oh-so-carefully covers his. “Even knowing how much it would hurt, even now...I still wouldn’t have done it.”

He meets Crowley’s eyes, and sees in his gaze an adoration so reverent it must be sacrilegious. “And I’m very glad how it all worked out,” he breathes out. “After all, the Almighty gave me this body to help...to help manage it. And my assignment on Earth. Which means I got to meet you.” And oh, how glad he is of that; that because he had refused to fight, because he was cut down, he got to meet the most wonderful person, the love of his life: his Crowley. “I wouldn’t change that for the  _ world _ .”

Crowley’s eyes are wet, and Aziraphale won’t say anything about it. “S’pose that’s alright, then,” he mutters. “Still wanna find them, though. Give them a taste of what they did.”

“I know, dear,” Aziraphale says, because he does. He knows how Crowley thinks, and he can feel, quite clearly right now, how Crowley feels. “But you won’t?”

The demon sighs. “No, I s’pose I won’t,” he cedes. “But only for you.”

And he pulls Aziraphale down for the most  _ wonderful  _ of kisses.


End file.
